I'm leaving, on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again. Actually, I'm not. I'm leaving on a 22 bus back into town. Yeah. I am the Pensioner and I ride and I ride. I ride through the city's backsides. Too effin true. What's the news anyway? Has someone kicked that Osborne on the jacksay yet? I did manage to get some pdf files popped into a little app on my iPad which looks like a set of shelves. Ikea shelves, admittedly. I wonder if they can be customised to look like posh toff shelves? With little pottery figures from the Cabinet along the top shelf - maybe even with Will and Kate and that Nicholas Witchell?

Although I work in a busy office, I'm sure that on some days I speak to no-one. Or at least I can recall nothing of that as soon as I walk out the door. The boss's boss woman phoned and I didn't recognise her voice, so lost in a dream world was I. I should make more of an effort. I've been invited out as one of the London Managers is moving on so we've booked a table at Iris. This seems like a rum do. I'm like a lifer at the end of his long sentence, going up on his own to get his food. Preoccupied.

That's enough blethers; it has actually brightened up outside. And my little XCWeather app shows sunshine on Sunday. It does! It does!

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